Something Funny's Going On
by Dr Captain Divine
Summary: When a mistake causes the committee to consider revoking Wilson's license, can he and House convince them otherwise? Influenced the episode The Mistake. A bit of House.Wilson slash. CHAPTER FOUR UP NOW.
1. Dealing with Your Mistake

**I try to be as medically accurate as possible, but I'm neither a doctor nor a med student, so that may prove difficult. So if something's wrong, and you know the right answer, please tell me. I'll be oh-so-grateful. (Most of my information came from WebMD, so it's accurate enough, I guess). **

**I DO NOT OWN: Wilson, House, Cuddy, or House, M.D. the show. Enjoy. Please review.  
**

"We'll be joined by Doctor James Wilson, head of oncology here at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," the female voice tried to explain to someone quietly. Wilson fiddled with his tie, extremely nervous about the pending meeting. He felt the sweat beading at his brow, but hesitated to stain the sleeve of his white coat by wiping it off. As he heard the click of a door handle turning, Wilson brushed his sleeve upon his forehead and quickly rose from his seat to face the three people who had entered the room.

Like most days, Dr. Lisa Cuddy was not in a good mood. Her face held a stone-cold glare as she made eye contact with Wilson, and did not warm as she gestured to the shorter of the two men who stood by her side. Wilson gave a mere nod to his former patient, keeping his nervousness in check. He did the same to the taller man, who greeted his eyes with a leer that defined "if looks could kill". _Lawyer's eyes_, Wilson thought to himself.

Cuddy walked around her desk and sat down on the large chair behind it. She pointed to the seats before her, silently informing the three men to sit. Wilson took the seat he had previously occupied; the other two sat beside each other and the lawyer extracted several file folders from his bag, holding them on his lap.

"Wilson, this is, as you know, Mr. November and his attorney, Mr. Henderson," Cuddy informed him briefly, regardless of the fact that Wilson already knew.

"Thank you, Ms. Cuddy." Henderson quickly used this opportunity to speak. "It seems that my client here has had a less than pleasant experience at your hospital. He was," he thumbed through his papers until he found what he was looking for. "and I quote, 'insulted, harassed, mis-diagnosed, mistreated, given unnecessary tests and surgery, and put under great amounts of stress.'" Henderson glanced over at Wilson, grey eyes boring into his brown ones.

Wilson turned to Cuddy. "Most of that is House's doing. Why isn't he here?" he asked. Cuddy stared blankly for a moment.

"House is supposed to be here," Cuddy answered, anger resonating in her voice. "He should–" Cuddy stopped talking and stared forward, her jaw clenching. Wilson knew of only one thing that could cause her to make such a face, and turned around, only to have his assumptions confirmed.

The tall, lanky frame of Dr. Gregory House leaned backwards against the glass door, twirling his wooden cane about his fingers. Cuddy stood up, briskly walked to the door and pulled it open, stepping aside. House fell backwards into the room, but caught himself before collapsing. He spun around and leaned heavily on his cane. "A warning would be appreciated next time," he informed Cuddy, and shuffled his way over to the desk.

"So would being on time," she hissed, glowering darkly. House cocked his head and smirked.

"Sorry. A hospital equals dying people. I was saving them all, like you hired me to," he remarked cooly. Cuddy's upper lip twitched as she sat back down.

"Well, Mr. Henderson, this is Dr. House," Cuddy introduced them. Henderson's eyes scanned House's figure quickly.

"Are you checking me out?" he inquired, striking a pose with his cane. Cuddy spat out his name, and House just gave her a look of innocence. "Best that I give him something to look at, no?" He winked.

"House, maybe we can make decisions without you at this meeting," Cuddy snapped, clearly at the end of her rope. Henderson intervened before House could respond.

"But we can't have his statement without him stating it," he quipped, clearly trying to best House's own sarcasm. House let his eyes drift to him, then back to Cuddy.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, his tone sincere. Cuddy looked slightly relieved, and picked up a file similar to Henderson's.

"Mr. November says you enticed, embarrassed, and harassed him," she explained. "He wants you t–"

"Oh, come on!" House blurted out. "Since when is telling someone their name is a month harassment?"

"Unlike you, Dr. House, I have feelings," November said weakly, blushing slightly. House tilted his head to the left and let a natural smirk cross his face.

"Oh, yes. And 'House' is such an easy name to grow up with," House said, feigning sympathy. He pointed over to Wilson, who had his head in his hands, just wishing that this would be over. "You're too sensitive. I'm sure Wilson here still sucks at volleyball, regardless of what we call him. By the way, there's a tennis match versus the residents tonight. You in, ballboy?"

"House!" Cuddy screeched. "House, sit down. Right now." House noticed the lack of seat for him to occupy, so he tossed his cane down and dropped to the floor, staring up to a very displeased Cuddy. She shook her head and lifted a court order off her desk. "Here's the deal. You apologize and follow up on Mr. November, tending to his personal case, and he promises not to press harassment charges."

"That's it?" House queried, a playful tone dancing in his voice. Cuddy nodded furiously, glaring at House. He shrugged and fetched his cane, and held out a hand to Wilson. "Help me rise, grand master!" Wilson shot House a strange glare, but pulled his friend off the floor.

"Well, Mr. November," House said, turning to his new patient. "I am now court ordered to be your slave." November shot a worried glance toward his lawyer as House cackled, limping his way out of the room.

Cuddy sighed. "Now that _that_ half is taken care of," she began, looking towards Wilson. "Now we deal with you." Wilson winced, remembering the details of this case.


	2. What You Did

**I DO NOT OWN: House, Wilson, Cameron, Chase, Foreman, or liver cancer. My medical terminology is as good as it is going to get. **

**FLASHBACK chapter. **

"Well, Mister November, the test results came back, and the news," Dr. Wilson informed the worried patient, who sat on the table, shivering in a hospital gown. "is not good. You see, this here," he explained, pointing to a spot on the x-ray image. "is a tumor in your liver. We're sorry to tell you this, but it's in quite a dangerous spot, and a biopsy would be to risky. But judging by your symptoms, we're making an educated estimate that the tumor is malignant."

November has been given a room, and Wilson was on his way there, clutching a file. Swinging around the corner, he ran straight into House, who stumbled backwards and hit a nurse in the ass with his cane in the process. When she looked back, startled, House gave a wink before awarding Wilson his annoyance. "I won't bitch about this one, it put in a good word, I think," he said. Wilson rolled his eyes and helped him up.

"Sorry, but why are you just standing here?" Wilson asked, walking towards the elevators. House hobbled alongside him.

"Why do you doctors need a reason for everything?" he quipped, following Wilson into the elevator. As the doors closed, Wilson turned to him.

"There's a man upstairs with hepatocellular carcinoma," Wilson began to explain. House looked uninterested in the primary liver cancer his colleague described. "But there's absolutely no reason for it." Wilson smiled as House's eyebrows rose.

"It's still cancer. It's got nothing to do with how he got it," House said as the elevator doors opened and the two walked out into the busy sixth floor lobby. "Cancer is boring. I don't know how anyone can devote their lives to it."

"I don't know how some people devote their lives to ruining the ones of others, but that's not relevant either," Wilson fired back, defensive of his profession. "And fine, I'm sure there's hundreds of patients waiting for you to mis-diagnose with Lupus."

"Cold, man. Very cold," House remarked, turning to the right. "Go get off telling a man he's gonna kick the bucket." With that, he limped away. Wilson smirked and sighed, clearing his head. He walked down the hallway until he reached the room that his patient occupied.

Sliding open the door, Wilson fixed a warm smile on his face and greeted the sick man. "Hello there." The steady beep of the heart monitor was his only answer, but Wilson wasn't expecting much of a conversation from a man who'd just been diagnosed with a rare, terminal liver cancer.

Sitting on a stool beside the bed, Wilson opened the file he held and flipped through some of the test results. "Well, Mr. November, I do believe you've already been informed that you have a very rare form of this liver cancer." November nodded, and opened his mouth, but struggled to speak. He cleared his throat.

"The blond one told me it can't go away," he coughed, blinking slowly. The whites of his eyes were tinted a brownish-yellow, a sign of the failure in his liver.

_Dammit Chase_, Wilson thought to himself. "Well, that's what happens in most of these situations, but there are courses of action we can take that may give you a good chance of living for a while longer." November yawned and began to scratch his forearm, taking a sharp intake of breath.

"God, I'm so itchy," he said, digging his fingernails into his skin. Wilson watched for a moment, then went to the mobile storage unit and pulled open a drawer. He pulled out a tube of ointment and opened it.

"It's a symptom of the cancer. This calamine lotion should help," Wilson told him, rubbing the lotion onto his arm. "You really shouldn't scratch it, it may eventually cause infection." November sighed and looked towards his heart monitor.

"How long do I have?" he asked. Wilson was slightly taken aback by the suddenness of the question, but consulted his charts before answering.

"Well, if we take no action, you may live for three more weeks," Wilson informed him. He saw November become tense for a moment, then relax. "But there are several options. Since we're pretty sure your tumor is malignant, we can start you a chemotherapy and radiation. We might be able shrink the tumor to an operable size that way. If we can remove it then, you may add several years to your expectancy."

"I'll do it."

-

A few weeks later, November was on daily bouts of low-dose radiation, doing extremely well. His tumor was shrinking at an astonishing rate, and Wilson predicted it was only a matter of days before they could operate. "Fantastic," House exclaimed melodramatically, plucking the bag of chips from Wilson's plate. "I love how interested you want me to be in your patients."

"House," Wilson said scoldingly, handing over money for his lunch. House crunched on the potato chips as they sat down at a table in the middle of the cafeteria. They talked about pointless subjects, the weather, Chase's hair, etc., until Wilson's pager went off. Taking a long sip of Wilson's drink, House tried to see what the problem was.

"Damn," Wilson muttered, quickly rising from his chair. "He can't breathe." He darted for the door, hurrying up to his patient. House sat back, slightly interested in the case.

Up in November's room, Wilson saw that Dr. Cameron had already gotten there, and had inserted the tube into his throat, helping him breathe. "Did it subside?" he asked her. She shook her head.

"It was really severe," she informed him. "It's evened out a bit, but it doesn't look good. He might be headed for heart failure."

"What causes arrhythmias?" House asked his team, scrawling on his whiteboard. When no one answered, he spun on his heel and looked at them.

"Wilson's patient?" Cameron asked, fighting the smirk that appeared on her face. House glanced away, then back. "I knew you'd get interested!"

"Is it possible for you not to question every move I make?" he queried.

"If we didn't question everything you did, every patient you've treated would be dead," Chase answered, leaning back in his chair.

"Then someone needs to question you more often," House snapped, referring to the people Chase had killed in the past. His face dropped the grin and he became serious.

"Sarcoidosis can cause arrhythmias," he replied.

"But it's very unlikely that a man would suddenly develop sarcoidosis–" Foreman began to say.

"He's been through radiation. He's immunosuppressant," House interrupted him. "He's having trouble breathing. Go CT his chest." All three of his team rose to their feet and exited his office just as Wilson entred it.

"Where are they going?"

"CT scanning your cancerman," House answered. Wilson let a surprised look plaster itself to his features. House noticed it. "I think he's got sarcoidosis."

"No!" Wilson exclaimed. "I had him scheduled for operation later today. If he's got an infection, we can't!"

"Of course you can. It's called 'don't tell him'," House answered. Wilson looked shocked.

"You want me to not tell my patient that he's got a potentially damaging disease?" he asked, appalled that House would keep such information from a dying man.

"Just until you can extract his little tumor," House said, walking over to his coffee maker. Wilson just stared at him.

"How can you live with that?"

"How does anyone live with anything?" House snapped, stirring sugar into his drink. Wilson just shook his head and walked out of the room.

-

Wilson watched from above as November's surgery came to a close. All he could think of was the great risk the man was in, and how the information he was holding may come back to bite him. He put his head in his hands and thought for a moment, until he heart the horrific sound of a flatline.

He looked down, seeing the surgeons scrambling to restart his heart. He had been without oxygen for a minute now, and the risk of brain damage was increasing with every passing moment. "That's a shame," House's voice muttered from behind Wilson. He jumped slightly, then spun around.

"That's what you've got to say?" Wilson shouted, angry and horrified. "The man could have permanent brain damage and–"

"Not that, Mrs. Wilson," House replied. "He doesn't have cancer."

"What are you talking about? He's got a tumor and liver failure."

"It's benign," House interrupted him. "He's an alcoholic."

--

**Please review, and I'll promise there'll be more actual storyline. :) **


	3. What You Think

**I DO NOT OWN**: House, Wilson, Cuddy, or Princeton-Plainsboro.

I've just realized how much I've been influenced by _The Mistake_. But look! Plot!

Sorry this took so long! I had a wasp sting on my hand, was borderline anaphylactic, and couldn't do much for the past week. Forgive me, and I'm happy to report I am not longer crippled.

I'm sorry if not everything is right (such as where things are and how things happened). OH! Thanks to those of you who have this story on alert. Makes my day. Please read and **review**.

-

"Wilson!" Cuddy called his name, still unnaturally angry. Wilson snapped himself out of the memory and nodded in response. "Mr. Henderson, Mr. November," she addressed the men. "I would like to speak to Dr. Wilson alone for a moment." Henderson stood up, but did not walk away.

"This will be in committee, Ms. Cuddy. I do not believe that my client and I are required to let you speak to your employee alone," he said, stating the guidelines of a committee review case.

"I know," Cuddy snapped. "I don't care if you're not required. I need to speak to Dr. Wilson alone." Henderson hesitated, but nodded to November, who struggled to raise to his feet. He had gotten paler, Wilson noticed, and he winced as he meekly followed his attorney out of the room. Cuddy sighed and put her head in her hands at the door clicked shut.

"Cuddy," Wilson started, but she cut him off.

"Wilson, do you know that Princeton-Plainsboro has one of the worst records regarding malpractice and harassment in the country?" she queried, looking up. Wilson nodded his head, trying to keep calm. "It's gotten so bad that if we have one more lawsuit in the next month we could be closed down."

This fact Wilson did not know. "What?" he exclaimed, sitting up straighter. Cuddy nodded, rubbing her temple.

"I'm sorry if I snapped earlier, but I cannot handle this," she said, stressful remorse in her voice. "You and House and everyone else I've hired are brilliant doctors, but if we can't keep a decent reputation for safety and care, you'll no longer have a chance to show it. Wilson," her voice took on a stern tone. "the committee is looking for an escape route. If we can show that we can regulate and keep our doctors in check, we might have a better chance at staying open. But one of the methods they're thinking is removal."

Wilson felt a white-hot feeling ascend his spine. "Me?" he choked out, pointing to himself. Cuddy nodded solemnly.

"I've been trying to talk to them about it, but they're pretty stuck on the idea. They think that if we forbid a mistake-maker from practising medicine, we can show that we've got a higher standard and that nothing like it will happen again. You'll be their first victim, I'm afraid."

"My licence. They want to revoke my licence," Wilson stated, standing up and circling his chair. He began to pace, one hand stuffed into his hair. Cuddy stood up and put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, understanding what he must be thinking.

"Look, you're not completely doomed," Cuddy tried to assure him. "The committee review isn't for a week. You have seven days to collect testimonies and recommendations from everyone and every patient. You're a fantastic oncologist, James. The committee just needs to be assured that you'll never make another mistake that ends up with a malpractice suit."

Wilson sat back down in his chair. Cuddy's speech did not make him feel any better. In fact, it planted more seeds of doubt and self-consciousness in his mind. _What if I'm not good enough?_ he asked himself, unsure if the lives he'd diagnosed with cancer these past years had done him any good.

For the rest of the meeting after the other clients were brought back in, Wilson did not focus on what was being said, who was being threatened, or how much he was in trouble. All he could think of was his past performances; how good they were, what he'd messed up on, where he could have improved. When Cuddy finally signalled that the talk was over, Wilson simply left, mind still occupied with his insecurity.

He wandered the hallways, finding himself ten minutes later back on the floor of his office. He started down the bustling wing, staying close to the wall. Nurses and assorted doctors raced in every which way, clutching files and wheeling patients. Before he knew it, he had reached House's office.

Wilson stopped, taking a moment to examine the words etched onto the glass door. He looked beyond them, noticing the man inside. House was faced towards the windows, tossing his plaything. He watched the red and grey ball he held, focussing in on the bounces it made. After a while, Wilson shook his head, clearing his mind, and opened the door to House's office.

"Committee review, huh?" House said the second Wilson entered the room. Swinging his chair around, he let a smirk dance onto his face. "If you need consult, go ask Chase. He screwed up worse than you did."

"It's in a week," Wilson stated blankly, folding his arms across his chest, his white coat rustling in the process. He sighed loudly and put a hand to his temple. "I'm going to need reviews and recommendations–"

"What? And you think you suck too much to get them? You're lucky Jimmy, if your patients die unexpectedly, it's not your fault."

"Except this time, House. The guy's dying of an infection from an operation I allowed. It's all on my hands, and I'm the one who's stuck with the repercussions," Wilson spouted, his voice cracking. House's smirk dropped, and he let the ball drop to the floor. It bounced a few times and rolled towards the wall.

"I guess that's the downside to caring. You get crap for it," House answered, standing up. "No wonder I avoid the whole thing."

--

Inside his locked office, Wilson had turned off the lights and shut the blinds, regardless of the fact that it was almost midnight. He thought clearer in the dark, and he was in desperate need of some quality pondering. He stared at the papers in the file on his neatly organized desk. The lighting was too dim for him to read it, but Wilson didn't want to know who had stumbled upon this hospital, unfortunate enough to have developed something he specialized in.

_This person, this patient, could also be a mistake,_ Wilson thought, a fist clenched over his mouth. _They could die tomorrow or live to be 103. And either way, it's on me_. The notion that guiding these lives that were doomed from the moment of diagnosis was not worth the backlash of upset families, friends, and bosses entered his mind again, and Wilson slammed a hand onto his desk. He could not handle all the pressure and confusion this whole issue was causing him.

Wilson also didn't understand why it bothered him so much. He'd lost his licence temporarily before, all because his best friend was a complete drug addicted idiot. Through a process of review and bargaining, he'd gotten it back, but barely. _Any chance to get rid of a repeat offender, they'll take, right?_ he wondered.

Wilson was about to flip on the light that hung above his desk when he heard a loud banging at th door that lead to the balcony, followed by a disgruntled mutter. "I locked it for a reason," he informed the attempted intruder. A few seconds and a 'click' later, House limped into his office.

"How did you. . .?" Wilson started.

"Magic," House replied, twirling a MasterCard between his fingers. It was enough to get Wilson to crack a smile. House threw the card onto Wilson's desk and sat in the chair in front of it. "That's yours."

"You stole my card?!" The smile dissipated.

"Mine was maxed out. Apparently forty-three issues of Playboy from eBay is more than I can afford."

"You _stole my card?!_" Wilson repeated, snatching the plastic card off his desk and stuffing it into his wallet. House smirked and shrugged. Wilson rose from his chair and began to pace, eyes falling back onto the file on his desk, mind wandering back to his issue. "Do you think the committee would even consider keeping me?" he asked.

"How am I supposed to know?" House replied, pulling a pen off Wilson's desk and drawing on the patient file.

Ignoring House's reply, Wilson continued. "Not even that, do I even deserve to be kept? This is not the only time I've messed up. Maybe my whole career has been a mistake. All the people I've told were going to die, their families, they've all been through such a horrific ordeal, and it's all because I've devoted my life to a disease there's no cure for."

"You didn't invent cancer, Wilson," House said, completing a rude sketch of the male anatomy on the file. He stood up and faced Wilson, whose hands clawed at his hair as he paced back and fourth across his office.

"No, but I spend six days a week dealing with it." He walked in several more circles before his emotions finally took hold of his body. Wilson squeezed his eyes shut, but that did nothing to hold back the tears that began to drip down his face. Quickly spinning on his heel, he flung himself into House's arms, clutching the taller, older man.

House was taken aback, and kept himself from stumbling backwards. He looked down at the mess of brown hair that lie atop Wilson's head, not returning the embrace.

Breathing heavily as he tried not to let the diagnostician see him cry, Wilson lifted his head and locked eyes with House. A second passed of complete stillness, and the young oncologist pulled forward, commencing in a wet, awkward kiss.

-

Review, please.


	4. DAY ONE How You Know They Care

**Recently won the rights to House, M.D. They're all mine now.**

**EEE! Bought Season One on DVD, and I'm so thrilled to see early character development!House. Must write slashy fanfictions to keep myself from going into cardiac arrest until new episodes come back on. I'm quite upset that almost none of you readers bother to review. It makes me sad. I don't have to keep writing this, you know.**

**Oh, and Wilson's middle name actually _is_ Evan.**

**-- **

House was not entirely prepared, to say the least, for his friend's lips to be pressed against his own. A few seconds of white-hot horror snaked down House's spine before he could regain movement. Lifting his arms and slowly bringing them to Wilson's chest, he roughly pushed him away. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Wilson quickly turned away from House and let his hands roam his face. _Oh my god. What did I just. . .House? No. I. . .I'm not. . .he's not. . .I'm. . ._ Thoughts and emotions rampaged through his mind, setting fire to the centres of his brain that controlled rational speech.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean," Wilson sputtered, turning back to face his horrified friend. House had begun to make his way to Wilson's door, ignoring the almost incoherent blather that emitted from Wilson's mouth. "I don't think of you as. . .what I mean is, this means. . .House!"

The oncologist watched his (former?) friend turn the doorhandle and limp out into the hallway, quickly moving away. Wilson bit his lower lip and gripped at his hair, cursing himself for even throwing himself into House's arms in the first place. _What am I? Psychotic? _he thought to himself, slamming his office door and circling his desk.

Glancing at his clock, he noticed it was past midnight. 12:02, to be exact. _Day one,_ Wilson noted involuntarily.

-

"Dr. Wilson?" a soft, female voice spoke, slightly above a whisper. "Wilson?" Wilson felt a hand jostle him slightly, wrenching from a particularly deep sleep. He slowly lifted his head, surveying his location through half-asleep eyes. The light poured in from the open door, but the light from the windows was still covered by blinds. He was still in his office.

Wilson's head shot up quicker now, and he looked down at his desk, formerly his pillow. He let his eyes wander to the clock beside him. 7:34 am. He shook his head, letting the memories from the previous night flood back into his conscious mind. He squinted up to the woman who woke him and saw Cameron staring warily back at him.

"Um," she cleared her throat and took a few steps towards him, holding out a manilla folder marked 'CONFIDENTIAL'. "Cuddy says you'd benefit from some recommendations." Wilson took it from her, but put it down onto his desk without even looking at it.

"Um, thanks," he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

"Did you sleep here?" Cameron asked, general curious concern in her question.

_Shit,_ Wilson swore to himself. He cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter, smoothing out his tie with his hands. "I guess I did," he replied, his voice still husky from sleep. "Long night. Lots of appointments to schedule, meetings to cancel, and such."

"Alright." Cameron gave him a quick smile and started to head for the door.

"Wait." Wilson stopped her, glancing back at his clock. "Why are you here so early?" Cameron looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. She left, shutting Wilson's door behind her. He sighed, then picked up the file on his desk. He began to read Cameron's letter to the committee in his head.

"_Dear members of the Board and Committee of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, I strongly urge you to take into consideration this recommendation for Dr. James Evan Wilson. Dr. Wilson, currently head of oncology at this hospital, is an exceptional doctor. Unlike the head of diagnostics, he is diligent, prompt, and hard-working. He cares about the patients and the staff, and would never wish harm upon any of them. A mistake is something all doctors make, but firing this man would be an inexcusable action. He has made an unfathomably low amount of mistakes in all of his career as an oncologist (the same cannot be said about other department heads, such as diagnostics), and although his slip should not go without repercussions, a punishment as severe as revoking his licence, preventing him from ever devoting his lives to and caring for those who have been diagnosed with a terrible, incurable disease again, would be irrational and almost unethical. There are more serious offenses happening in the hospital, and even if they do not result in a patient's death, preforming a hysterectomy on a 64-year-old, terminal coma patient for diagnostic purposes is far more worth your investigation and persecution. _

_Allison Cameron, M.D._

_Immunologist/Diagnostician."_

Wilson skimmed the document a few more times, comforted by the convincing paper, glad that someone actually cared enough to try to keep him there. He also noted how many times she mentioned a certain "head of diagnostics" and smiled to himself. _House_, he thought. But the mention of the name, even by himself, brought back the memory. The kiss.

-

A/N: Assume this happens . . . like a year in the future from where Season 3 is now. I'm pretty sure Julie was Wilson's last wife, so assume he has remarried in less than a year (because he's a marriage whore) to a new woman.

Wilson managed to get through the rest of the day without running into House, and was feeling much better about himself as he left the hospital. He obtained four more recommendations from patients, and he was almost excited to go home as he drove. . .until he remembered he hadn't gone home last night. He had never called.

Whipping out his phone, Wilson dialled his home number. It rang. _Pick up, Tina_, he willed her in his head. It rang seven times before his own voice on the answering machine picked up. "Hello, you've reached the Wilson residence. We cannot make it to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and we'll call you back as soon as we can. Thanks."

beep "Uh, hello? Tina? Are you there? Look, I'm on my way home now. I'm sorry I never came home last night, it was a terribly busy day at work and I had a lot to do. I know I forgot to call, I'm sorry. Tina? Well, if you're not there I'll be home soon."

Snapping the phone shut, he threw it onto the passenger's side seat. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Wilson sped up, hoping to patch things up with his wife as soon as possible. _She'll understand. You just forgot to call. She doesn't need to know that anything happened. Nothing happened_, he rambled to himself, letting his driving become a bit reckless.

Making a sharp turn into the driveway five minutes later, Wilson quickly got out of the car, snatching his phone and his briefcase. He jogged to the door and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open. The foyer lights were off, but the kitchen's were on and he made his way there. "Honey? I'm home," he called, walking into the kitchen.

There, Tina sat at the counter, glaring. "Where were you last night?" she asked, the question piercing Wilson's heart. Wilson walked over to her, but her gaze remained unforgiving.

"I was at work," he started to explain.

"No you weren't! I called your office, you weren't there!" she countered.

"I guess I wasn't in my office when you called. I'm sorry I forgot to call, I really am! Things have been really hectic lately and I need a lot of time to straighten it out," he explained further. Tine shook her head, standing up.

"You weren't at work! Even if you _were_ at the hospital, you were with her, weren't you?"

"Who?"

"You know who! That second-floor nurse! I know you went out with her, James, I know you cheated on me!" Tina shouted.

"It was not a date! We had lunch! We were discussing hospital business!"

"You don't talk business with a nurse James! I know your record. I know what you've done to your past trophy wives!"

"Tina, please," Wilson tried to calm her down, but she glared daggers at him and Wilson saw the tears welling in her eyes. "I love you."

"Shut up, James!" Pulling two suitcases from behind the table, Tina thrust them both in his direction. "I took the liberty of packing your things. Get out. Get out now, you jackass!" She pushed him towards the door, and Wilson tried futilely to protest.

"Tina! I am not cheating on you! And even if I was, they wouldn't mean as much as you do to me!"

"James, for once, shut up! You're nothing but an asshole pig who just can't be satisfied!" Pushing him out the door, Wilson turned to look at her, the weight of the issue finally hitting him. Tina glared back at him, tears in her eyes. "You'll get your divorce papers in the mail. Now _get out_." Right before slamming the door, she pulled the ring off her finger and tossed into the yard.

-

_I will not go there. I will not go see him. I can't go running to him every time. He can't always be there. And I can't always want him to be_, Wilson had thought as he pulled his suitcases behind him, but as habitual as he was, he ended up back on that one he street he always walked, that one path he always took, right up to that one door he always knocked on. Holding his fist up to rap on the door, he heard music from within; House was playing his piano.

The song was slow and sad, a minor key that was as beautiful as it was daunting. Taking a deep breath, Wilson knocked. The music stopped in mid-phrase, and Wilson could heard House as he shuffled off the piano bench and made his way to the door.

It opened, and House looked at Wilson, then down to his bags. "Again?" he asked simply. Wilson nodded, not really expecting House to say anything that would make him feel better. He was surprised when House pulled the door open wider, stepping aside to let him in.

Taking a look at his watch as he started to pull off his jacket, Wilson noted the time. 11:58 pm.

"I don't know if I should stay here," Wilson said, putting his jacket back on. House just looked at him. "Look, about last night. I was confused. I've got a lot going on, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I don't want you to think-"

His words were forced back down his throat when a set of lips gracefully touched his own. "House," Wilson breathed as he taller man dropped his cane and wrapped his arms around him.

"Shut up, James," House whispered, kissing him again.

--

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